Master Geoffrey contented himself with casting another look of intense hatred at the imp, but he said nothing.
After a few minutes’ silence the imp said to him,
“Now I know you want to ask me a question and are too proud to do it. You would inquire what you must do with the pig during the day?”
“I acknowledge it,” said the sacristan. “What can I do with it? - of course I cannot take it to the church with me.”
“Leave it at home, then, I should if I were you, rather than be bothered with it all day.”
“Well, I should like to do that, but if my landlady should come and find it here she would very likely drive it away. Perhaps,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, “that would be the better way after all.”
“Not at all,” said the imp, “it would be sure to find its way back again at night, so that would be of no use. I see you want to get rid of it.”
“Your base suspicions annoy me.”
“Indeed. Now let me advise you. Go round to the house your landlady lives at, and tell her that you do not want your room arranged either to-day or to-morrow. She will be pleased to hear it, as I know she is suffering very severely from an attack of rheumatism. So you see you can leave the pig in your room without the slightest danger of its being found out by anyone. Now you had better go. Do not forget to bring the pig’s supper back with you, or it will again be under the unpleasant necessity of eating that which you had reserved for yourself. Now good-bye.”
The sacristan then left the house, and after having called on his landlady and assured her that there would be no occasion for her to arrange his room for him either that day or the next, - a piece of news which gave her great satisfaction, as the weather was cold and her rheumatism worse, - he continued his way to the church, where he had great difficulty in making his peace with the priest for being so late. When the duties of the day were over, he first went to an eating-house and ate a most hearty supper, determining that the pig should not deprive him of that meal. He then bought sufficient for his breakfast the next morning, and afterwards some vegetables for the pig. This last investment, we are obliged to acknowledge with great sorrow, caused him much annoyance. He had a violent objection to spend money on anybody but himself, and although he wished to act up to the part of an anchorite as closely as he could, he never had heard of one spending money on a dumb animal, and he almost considered it to be a work of supererogation to waste the money he had done on the pig. However, it was done, and there was no help for it. He sincerely repented his fault, and he could not say more; he would be more cautious another time.
When he arrived at home and had procured a light from a neighbour, he entered his room and found in it the pig and the imp. He showed little delight at the sight of either. The pig, on the contrary, received him with every mark of satisfaction, that is to say, as soon as it perceived the vegetables under the sacristan’s arm.
The sacristan took no notice of the imp, but threw the vegetables down on the floor, setting aside, however, enough for the pig’s breakfast the next morning, and it was soon occupied with its supper. The sacristan watched it thoughtfully as it fed, not a word being spoken the while either by the imp or himself. When the pig was fully satisfied, the sacristan swept up the remains, and opening the casement threw them into the street. He then closed it quickly as the weather was cold, intending to enjoy, if possible, a comfortable night’s rest, when to his intense horror, he found the pig had leaped upon the bed and had stretched itself full length upon it from head to foot, so that it would have been difficult for the sacristan to have placed himself beside the pig even if he had been so inclined.
The sacristan could hardly contain his rage, indeed for a moment it partially broke out, but a roar of laughter from the imp induced him to restrain himself. With great difficulty he put something like an amiable smile on his countenance, and then addressed the pig with much genuine persuasion in his tone and manner.
“Come off the bed, there’s a good pig,” he said, “and I will make you up another on the floor, where you will be much more comfortable than you are there. Come now, there’s a good pig.” But the only answer he got was a grunt.
“What in the name of Fortune,” said the imp, “do you want the pig to get off the bed for?”
“Why to sleep there myself, of course,” said the sacristan.
“Upon my word, you are a pretty anchorite. You slept like a top all last night to my certain knowledge, and you want to go to bed to-night!”
“What am I expected to do then?” said the sacristan.
“Pass the night in meditation on the floor, of course; who ever heard of an anchorite sleeping two nights running? You will now find how invaluable is your pig. It will sleep soundly enough while you meditate, but the moment you fall asleep it will ring its bell. I see you do not like that arrangement, and I begin to suspect you are no better than a sham after all.”
“I will prove to you I am,” said the sacristan; “that is to say if I am to have the pleasure of your company here all night.”
“That you will not have,” said the imp, “but you will see me in the morning,” and he immediately vanished.
To say the truth, the sacristan passed a most uncomfortable night. Whenever he attempted to sleep, the pig rang its bell until the unfortunate man was fully awake, and then went to sleep himself. Several times in the course of the night did he beg the pig to keep quiet, and once he endeavoured to explain to it that he always meditated best with his eyes shut, but the pig would hear of no compromise, and continued faithfully to do its duty till morning. When day broke the imp made his appearance, and as before seated himself on the stool.
“What sort of a night have you passed?” said the imp.
“A very unpleasant - I mean a very happy one, indeed.”
“I do not believe you,” said the imp. “I suspect after all you are not the man to resist temptation.”
“There you are certainly wrong,” said the sacristan. “No man,” he continued, casting a most vindictive glance at the pig, “was ever more cruelly tempted than I have been to-night, and yet I successfully resisted it. But after all I candidly admit that, all things considered, it will be exceedingly difficult for me to carry out my wish at present, much as it would disappoint me to relinquish it. You must perceive yourself that in a small room like this, I have no convenience or accommodation for a temptation of the kind.”
“O you coward!” said the imp. “What, going to give in already? No accommodation indeed! Why, I should like to know how the anchorites of old managed?”
“They had the desert handy, where they had plenty of room.”
“Why do you not go there then?”
“How absurdly you talk!” said the sacristan peevishly. “Why, the desert is so far off it would take me a life-time to get there.”
“Try Kennington Common, then,” said the imp. “There will be room enough for you there, and I observed the other day at the farthest part a half-ruined shed that would serve you and your pig admirably for shelter.”
“If I went there,” said the sacristan, “would it be necessary for me to take the pig with me?”
“Of course; its duty is to keep you from relapsing; and besides that, it would not stay behind though you wished it.”
The sacristan reflected for some minutes. To say the truth, the proposition of the imp did not altogether displease him. Near that part of Kennington Common resided a buxom widow very well to do in the world, who was rather fond of hearing the sacristan converse on serious subjects. He calculated that if bad weather came on, or if his provisions did not hold out, or if he were cold or dull, he could go to her house and instruct her.
“I think,” said he at last to the imp, “your idea an excellent one, and I will carry it out. As soon as my duties for the day are over, I will go to the Common and remain there a week at least, that is to say, if the priest will give me leave of absence for so long a time, of which I have little doubt. I
will go immediately and ask him.”
So saying he left the house, after giving the pig its breakfast.
In the evening the sacristan returned to the house with a large bundle of warm clothing, some boiled bacon and ham, and bread enough to last him for several days, which he placed on the table, and a very small quantity of food for the pig, which he threw on the ground, and on which the pig began to feed ravenously. The sacristan then seated himself on the bed to recover his breath, for he was greatly fatigued with the exercise he had taken.
“What may those things be for?” said the imp, pointing to the bundle on the table.
“It is warm clothing,” said the sacristan, “for the nights are cold.”
“That is hardly en règle, ” said the imp; “you ought to take nothing more with you than you have on. The ancient anchorites never had even a change of linen.”
“You forget,” said the sacristan, “they lived in warmer climates, where it was not required; here, where it is colder, it would be allowed. I have well studied that question, and I know I am right.”
“And that other parcel, what may that contain?”
“Boiled bacon and ham, and bread.”
“That is not orthodox.”
“Why not?”
“If you are going to live the life of an anchorite, you must live upon herbs and roots, and drink nothing but water; and, by-the-bye, if I am not mistaken, I see something in your bundle the form of which is remarkably like that of a leathern bottle of wine.”
“I have received a dispensation from the priest to eat meat for the next fortnight, and the wine is to be taken occasionally on account of my weak state of health.”
“You hypocrite!” said the imp; “you have imposed on the worthy priest. You know there is nothing the matter with you.”
“I scorn your imputation,” said the sacristan with much virtuous indignation in his tone; “I have practised no imposition on the holy man whatever. I went to a leech and told him I felt in a very weak state of health, and I gave him a crown to give me a certificate that a course of animal food with wine was necessary for me, and this certificate I took to the priest, who, on the faith of it, gave me the dispensation. If there is any sin in the matter it is the doctor’s, not mine - I took good care of that.”
“Upon my word,” said the imp, “I begin to respect you. You are evidently a man after my own heart.”
“I consider your hatred,” said the sacristan, “a far greater compliment than your love.”
The sacristan now made preparations for his journey, and left the house with the pig.
“Bon voyage,” said the imp; but he received no answer.
The sacristan and the pig made their way without much difficulty through the City, and even crossed the crowded thoroughfare of London Bridge without anything occurring particularly worthy of remark. When they arrived at the Borough Market things did not go on so well. The pig had had but a very scanty supper, and the quantity of vegetables he found strewed about in the market offered an amount of temptation he could not resist. The market at the time was crowded, and the pig, in its eagerness to obtain food, ran in the way of the merchants and purchasers, and in return got many and sundry hard kicks, which appeared not to agree with its constitution.
It is well known that even the best pigs, when hungry, have but little of the moral quality of integrity about them, and the one whose history we are recording formed no exception to the rule. Not content with picking up the refuse vegetables which lay strewn about, it had the imprudence to walk off with a fine cauliflower from a trader’s basket. This was perceived, however, and the hue and cry was immediately raised. The cauliflower was taken from it, and a perfect shower of kicks was rained on its sides. Some inquired to whom the pig belonged, and one asked the sacristan if it was his. We are sorry to be obliged to say that he replied in the negative, and still more sorry to admit that while his pig was being assaulted in this cruel manner, he looked on without the slightest expression of indignation or compassion on his face, and at last turned on his heel and continued his road, letting his pig disengage itself from the crowd as best it could.
He had hardly arrived at Newington when the pig joined him, grunting in a most lamentable manner. As last the pair reached Kennington Common, and the sacristan made directly for the shed mentioned by the imp. He found it without any difficulty, and without allowing the pig time to make a choice, he appropriated the driest and warmest corner to himself. The pig offered no opposition, for the treatment it had received appeared to have taken every particle of courage out of it, and it threw itself down in an opposite corner, and was soon fast asleep. The sacristan now undid his wallet, and, after having made a hearty supper, he put on some warm clothing and went to sleep, having first hung his wallet and provisions under the roof so as to be out of the reach of the pig.
Next morning he found the imp in the shed, but the pig had sauntered out for the moment into a neighbouring turnip-field.
“So you arrived here safely?” said the imp to the sacristan, who was occupied with his breakfast. “I followed you under the form of a dog the whole of the way, and I must say your conduct was most cowardly and disgraceful. You looked on with perfect indifference when the pig was being so horribly maltreated in the market.”
“That is not true,” said the sacristan; “I assure you that I felt bitterly for the poor animal. I felt as much pain from every kick it received as if it had been inflicted on my own person; but I said to myself, Here is a trial for me, and it is my duty to support it meekly and with patience. And I flatter myself I did so admirably. When the kicks were being showered so cruelly on its sides I not only made no opposition, but, wishing to see how far my own self-denial would go, I said, Kick on.”
“And, pray, why did you deny being its master?”
“That I might not appear proud. Pride is a sin I despise.”
“Capital! Now, what do you intend to do this morning? - meditate, I suppose?”
“No,” said the sacristan with a sigh; “I would willingly do so, but unfortunately I am unable. I have occasion to go into the City.”
“Nonsense, you know you have got leave of absence for a fortnight, and there is no occasion whatever for you to go there.”
“You are in error,” said the sacristan mildly, “for go I must.”
“Might I ask on what errand?”
“To get some wine.”
“How preposterous!” said the imp; “you brought enough with you to last a moderate man for three days at least.”
“Not under the circumstances in which I was placed,” said the sacristan. “You forget how cold it was.”
“What, in the name of Fortune, has that to do with it? Do you think the anchorites of old drank wine in that manner?”
“Possibly not, very possibly not; but their case was very different. They did not suffer from cold, for they lived in a warm climate. I do not, and I am justified in taking as much wine while living in this open shed as shall raise the temperature of my body to an equality with that of theirs in the African desert; and that cannot be done under a bottle a day. Now I have only one leathern bottle in my possession, and therefore you yourself must perceive that I am obliged, though sorely against my inclination, to go to London every day.”
“That is very sad indeed,” said the imp; “but do you not think the anchorites, had they been placed in your position, would have attempted to abstain from wine? Judging from what I have heard of them, I think they would.”
“I do not agree with you. Judging from my own conscientious feelings on the subject, I am decidedly of the opinion they would not; nor will I try it, lest I might fall into a grievous and sinful error.”
“And what may that be?”
“In thinking that so sinful a mortal as I am could surpass the sanctity of those venerable men. I am not sure that even making the attempt would not be a mortal sin, and I shall not try it.”
“Just as you please,” said the imp. “When
do you start?”
“Immediately. Now, my faithful companion,” he continued, addressing the pig, who had just returned from the turnip-field, where, judging from the rotundity of its person, it had made an excellent breakfast, “let us start off for London at once, that we may have plenty of time to see the sights; that is to say, after I have called on a friend of mine who lives in St. Nicholas in the Shambles.”
But the pig took no notice of the invitation, and stolidly prepared a bed for itself in the corner of the shed. Doubtless a vivid reminiscence of the Borough Market, - through which it would have to pass, - was still fresh in its memory.
It was nearly dark when the sacristan returned to the shed that evening. He appeared in perfect good humour with himself and all the world; and if his cheeks were not rosy his nose was certainly slightly so. Altogether he presented the appearance of a person who had drunk a trifle more than was absolutely necessary for him, without being at all intoxicated. He hung up a bottle of wine under the roof, with some ham and some bread, and then, seating himself in his corner, he attempted to meditate, but did not succeed. He felt that evening especially the want of society, for even the pig lay fast asleep beside him, after a hearty supper in the turnip-field. He would have felt more comfortable if the imp had been there, although expressly sent to tempt him. The feeling of ennui grew on him till he found it almost unsupportable, and at last he determined, although it was rather late in the day for a person connected with the church to call upon a lone woman, to pay the widow a visit, and talk with her on moral subjects. The resolution was no sooner formed than he rose from his seat to put it in practice, and putting his cap on his head in a jaunty manner, he left the house.
To his sore annoyance, however, the pig, which had been as still as a dormouse while he was in the shed, showed unusual signs of liveliness when he quitted it. It rose up, and, following him, gambolled round in front of him, impeding his walk, and grunting and ringing its bell in a most absurd manner. This enraged him excessively, for although he had nothing to be ashamed of in visiting the widow, still, when a man calls on the woman of his choice, he does not wish it to be trumpeted forth to all the world, in such a very ridiculous manner. He attempted to drive the pig back again without the slightest effect, and we are sorry to add made use of such language on the occasion as any well-disposed sacristan would be shocked to repeat. At the same time it is but just to state that, when he found he could not get the pig to forego its intention by any possible entreaties and threats, he honestly begged its pardon, and allowed it to accompany him.
The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy Page 29
